


Gravity

by inber



Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Casual Sex, Dirty Talk, F/M, Heartbreak, No Happy Ending Fest, Smut, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: I was inspired by the lyrics from one of my favourite songs, ‘Watch Me Read You’ by Odette. They are at the start of this fic. Just something that’s a clash of romance, angst, smut, and missing the other part of you because as much as you want them, you can’t have them.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/You
Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840087
Comments: 5
Kudos: 53





	Gravity

**_(You are so absent/But you consume me/And when the sun goes down the night it wraps around me/You try to stand still/I can’t help moving/You’re like the moon that draws the tide that rushes through me)_ **

You promise yourself it’ll be different every time that chestnut mare rides into town.

You tell yourself that you can ignore it, that he’ll only be visiting for a few days at most; you soothe the pull of gravity with these lies, because he is your ground, and you are the sky. You exist together, but apart. Anyone who saw you would say that you meet on the horizon, always touching – but you know it’s just an illusion.

When the tavern-talk swirls around you as you enter for supper that evening, shrugging your light coat from your body, there’s one particular word that you tune into – _Witcher_ – and a name that you swear you’d be able to pluck out from one hundred voices speaking at once.

_Geralt._

The breath that leaves your blush lips is shaky, and its replacement is drawn deep from the well of your lungs, like it has a chance of steadying you, when you’re already eagerly listening for more gossip. You hate that you are, but you suppose that short of blocking your ears like a tantruming child, you have no choice. Is he here already? Expected? Are they simply speculating on one of the stories that filter through in song-form?

When you turn the corner to locate a seat in one of the quieter nooks, you find your answer. It comes first in an electricity that tickles your skin, teases the hair on your exposed arms to attention, curls your toes in their boots and pebbles your nipples beneath your dress. You’ve not laid eyes upon him, and already your body sings, reaches for him, begs the space between you to lessen.

It’s not just you; there’s a rustle of cloak and you turn your head immediately to meet the glinting gaze of the Witcher, all dilated pupils, his goblet of wine held in stasis as he regards you like you’re the first star to wish upon in the evening, a shimmering speckle of hope and faith in the dark sky of his world.

The war begins in your brain immediately, logic and reason clashing swords with emotion and feeling, a battle that inevitably has your feet rooted to the ground and your fingers woven into the fabric of your skirts, clenching them as if they might tether you back to reality and save you. But nothing so simple can rescue you anymore. Only him; it’s only him.

He rises slowly, and the muscles in your calves flex in flight response, but your boots are iron-bound and do not shift so much as an inch. He approaches you like you’re a wounded fawn, prone to skitter away at the first uncertain gesture, and he’s right to do so.

“I’ve missed you.” He breathes, standing before you, his hands awkward at his sides. You can feel the ghostly pressure of them, where they should be touching you, and you can tell by the way he flexes his fingers that he wants to draw you to him, to hold you.

Slowly, you look up from beneath the curtain of your lashes, taking in the sincerity of his face, the ethereal glow of his wolf-eyes in the low-light of the tavern corner, before you cast your gaze back down to your boots. It’s too much. You should have run. “Geralt, we agreed last time…” Your voice sounds far away, foreign to your own ears.

“I know.” He replies, that rough-rumble tone that always makes your knees weak still too low for anyone else to hear your conversation. You bite the fleshy inside of your lower lip and tug at your skirts a bit tighter. Between you, a steady hum of warmth is building; you are the sunset ablaze, the ground reaching for the sky to kiss her, to set her cheeks flaming, to consume her entire existence for a moment of brilliance that forces the whole world to take notice.

Almost touching, never touching. _An illusion._

“I’m glad to see you well, Geralt.” He’s told you he loves the way you say his name; like it’s a song in one word, a private hymn breathed in the yawn of a dark cathedral. He closes his eyes. You feel the snap of your imprisoned feet, and shuffle one uncertain foot backwards. “I—I must go.”

“No, _wait!_ ” His voice is a sharp plea, and he reaches to grasp your arm, but his fingertips brush the barest flesh because you are moving with nimble skill, threading through the patrons that are crowding the place, running, your breath too quick, your pulse a hummingbird caged in your ribs.

The night air is cool and it makes you feel like you might regain your senses as you draw greedy lungfuls of it, racing ‘round the side of the inn until you’re in the darkness of a small thicket of trees, pressing your back into the scratch of the bark, trying to ignore the scorch of heat that cries for your attention where his fingers touched you. You want to scream. You want to weep. You do neither, staring up at the waxing moon as it reveals itself from behind a cloud shroud.

“I feel you _everywhere_.” His voice brushes velvet in your ears, and you do not startle. He’s your true north; his booted feet might be silent on the bracken of the ground, but you felt him approach. Accusingly, you cast the gloss of your gaze at him. “I _wish_ I knew why. I _wish_ I could do more than just… than just _wish_.” The sharp line of his jaw flexes with his frustration, and you’re looking at him, truly looking at him without intending to shy away. This is the beginning of the end, and you know it.

“I know.” You reply, and now that you’re not fighting it with every inch of your being, you’ve found your breath. The race of your pulse starts to soften to a metronome-tick, and you reach your hands up to feel the brush of his silvery stubble on your palms, cupping his face. The contact is so simple, but now that you are touching, it’s like there are no more questions or answers or doubts or fears. There’s nothing but **him** , and he is the axis of the world; when you bring him into the tight circle of your life, you become the reason he turns.

“Gods,” Is all he can manage, leaning into your touch, delighting in it for a few precious seconds before he dips down to weave his fingers into the silk sheet of your hair, bending to press his lips to yours, a kiss that speaks for him: _please, please see me, please be here with me._

And you are.

Your tongue laves his cupid’s bow, the nip and suckle of his lower lip into your mouth kittenish until he rumbles a growl, licking the heat of your mouth in an embrace that robs you of breath, his tongue demanding of your own, the rasp of his beard leaving your skin reddened. He tastes of ale and freedom and something wild, untameable, and you’re insatiable, your teeth clashing in the desperation for more, this bid for dominion. When you part, it is only to breathe, and for him to speak.

“Your house? I can—”

“Too far.” You decide, running the heat of your mouth down his neck, “Here.”

“Here?” His voice is surprise, until you suck at his skin hard enough to mark, and his hands slip down to your waist, gripping hard, a moan rocking him. You press your lips against the angry purple as if in apology, but the beast of him is straining at the tether, working the restraints looser and looser. He pushes you back into the trunk of the tree, capturing your lobe in a suckle, and you feel how hard he is against your stomach. His mouth begins to wander, down your elegant neck, hot on the swell of your breasts, and you know what he’s doing when he goes to kneel.

“ _No_.” You demand, pulling at his arms so he’ll stand again; he’s confused, visibly, but you’re too enamoured with the idea of him inside of you, fucking you here and now. Beneath your skirts, your cunt is already weeping.

“I don’t want to hurt you, and I don’t know how long…” He gasps mid-sentence as you greedily palm his clothed cock, squeezing him, clever fingers unknotting the laces. Any argument he had has become hazy, and with a deeply primal growl, he hitches your skirts up to your waist. Your undergarments are in his way, and so he simply tears at the side of them so they hang from one leg. The evidence of your arousal glistens on the lips of your pussy, and he moans at the beautiful sight, his cock drooling precome as it throbs weightily.

“ _Fuck me_ , Geralt.” You demand, and his gaze crashes into yours, the sun meeting the sea, land and sky, the connection that turns the whole world. Both of you feel it.

In the next second, he grips your waist with his massive hands, lifts you up the trunk of the tree, and settles between your wide spread legs. When he plunges balls-deep into you, he drinks your keening moan into his mouth with a claiming kiss, tense against you as you wrap your legs around his hips, the both of you reeling.

After a moment, he releases your lips, the wash of his breath hot as he rocks you against the bark, steadying you with one hand, cradling the back of your head with the other so as to not bump it with his thrusting. “Gods, fuck, _fuck_ ,” He snarls, “You’re so _tight_ , so ready for me… _**fuck**_.” His head bows forward as he kisses your throat, and he makes a short cry when you squeeze the muscles of your cunt ‘round him on purpose, meeting his gaze again with parted lips and the ghost of a challenge on the corners of your smile.

He grunts and releases your head, taking a step back, both of his hands at your hips now; you are supported by the tree and the lock of your legs, your upper-back remaining pressed into the wood. And then he does as you bid him to.

The thrust of his hips is quick and deep, and he keeps one large thumb pressed in a constant rub against your clit as he fucks his way through you, letting your wailing and gasping filter into the canopy above, his own pleasure gritted out in obscenities and huffs of hot air. It’s lewd and raw and rough and absolutely _perfect_ ; he’s what you need him to be, as ever, and your eyes roll back as you arch your spine a little, so he’ll hit that perfect spot just a bit harder.

“ _Yes!_ ” You scream, your hands pressed against the tree behind you for support or leverage – you’re not sure which – and you feel your thighs begin to shake, the building of your orgasm a storm-surge that gathers in momentum until it’s unstoppable and upon you. There’s nothing you can do but come, every muscle in your body strung tight and singing as the electricity consumes your mind, thrilling your spine, causing you to jerk and spasm in his grip. “Ger- _alt!_ ” You squeal, the seize of your pussy savage on his cock, and his breath becomes a continuous moan as he abuses your clit, wanting more from you, wanting every single wave to wash over him until he’s as destroyed as you are. He gets his wish when you peak a second time, unable to form words, your kiss-bitten lips parted in an obscene ‘o’ as you feel the entire world sink into your skin; he’s the gravity, he’s the watching moon, he’s **everything**.

His breath is broken and he can’t contain himself; thrusting as deeply as possible he roars his own euphoria, the thick throb of his cock within you an echo of his hastened heartbeat, his come flowing in a torrent of hot splashes as he mindlessly rocks, completely fucked-out as he rides the high, every squeeze of your jealous cunt another flood of his seed, every milking quiver answered with a rasping gasp as the sun of you sets, consumed by the land. There you are, together, sky and sand, moon and sea; no illusions, nothing but traded whorls of breath in the aftermath as you both tremble bodily.

When you are both strung-out and spent, he gently pulls you away from the tree and into his arms, reluctant to pull his cock from you; instead, he collapses backwards into a blanket of shed leaves and just holds you, pressing kisses into your crown, stroking your back, drifting with you in and out of a place that only you two can truly know about. In the small hours of the morning, you swap little snippets of life; stories, sweet sentiments, secret laughter. You both doze. At some point, he gently rolls you to the side so he can curl behind you, pulling you tight to his chest, the husk of his voice at your ear.

“ _I love you_.” He confesses, so quiet it might have been just the rustle of leaves above you.

“Then _stay_ with me.” You whisper, your heart heavy as you utter the words, because you already know his answer.

He kisses the back of your neck, pulls you closer, breathes the scent of your hair. This is what forever must feel like. This is how the world _should_ turn; this is home, and this is what makes sense. It’s too beautiful to waste on sleep, but your body is disobedient, and again you doze.

When you awaken, the sun is bright and warm, and you roll over to face Geralt, only to find yourself met with the space where he once lay. There’s a freshly-picked violet in his stead, and hot tears leap into your eyes as you scoop it up. Carefully, you stand, arranging your dress and doing your best to get any leaf-litter out of your hair.

Making your way home, you know he has already left town. You don’t need to look at the inn’s stables for Roach to confirm this. You know it because north isn’t north anymore, and when you walk, it feels like you can’t feel the ground beneath your boots. He hates goodbyes. He always has.

You enter your quiet cottage, and go down to the cellar. There, you hang the violet up to dry, beside the dozens of others. And there you weep, as the sun climbs to high noon, so far away from the horizon.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can follow my Tumblr, @inber for drabble/general ramblings.


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